THE DEAD MILKMEN

Death Rides a Pale Cow (The Ultimate Collection)
Restless Records

THEY SAY A little knowledge is a terrible thing, and I guess it's
true. Because the little I knew of the Dead Milkmen was pretty
terrible. Their incredibly crappy novelty song "Bitchin'
Camaro" was a college radio crossover hit in the mid-'80s,
annoying me most mornings of my senior year. So it was with a
little trepidation that I accepted the offer to review this retrospective
of their "career." Well, I slapped some ketchup on that
crow, and damn if it didn't go down all right. Sure, there's a
lot of awful shit on here, but there's enough good stuff that
I won't be using it for skeet. These guys demonstrate the potential
of a novelty band--in their goofy stabs at being clever, they
sometimes stumble on the sublime. From their dumb punk roots (best
exemplified by "Nutrition," a speedy anthem which extols
the virtues of good eating habits), they branch off in some engaging
ways. "Surfin' Cow" is an eerily captivating quasi-instrumental
that jangles like it came straight out of the Athens, Georgia,
of 15 years ago. The spoken-word piece "Stuart" divulges
an amusing trailer park conspiracy about "what the queers
are doing to the soil." But the one that really sends me
is "Life Is Shit," which has all the bittersweet melancholy
of a Jacques Brel song--imagine a gaggle of homely debutantes,
dateless and housebound on a Friday night, consoling themselves
with truffles and caviar (and with that asinine observation, my
status as a rock critic is assured).

--Greg Petix

SAM BUSH

Howlin' At The Moon
Sugar Hill Records

IT TAKES THEM damned feisty, young whippersnappers like mandolinist
Sam Bush to simultaneously respect traditional music--bluegrass,
in this case--while throwing it into bed with more contemporary
influences. Bush loves the present as much as he does the past,
and proves it with Steve Winwood's "Hold On," which
is a helluva lot grittier than the original; and a nostalgic swing
version of "Take Me Out To The Ballgame," reminiscent
of the mandolin orchestras of 60 years ago. Bluegrass music is,
almost by definition, conservative--a categorization that Bush
has fought through his work with the New Grass Revival, Emmylou
Harris and a load of other peer upstarts. And while the mandolinist
has been searching for a new gear in bluegrass for almost two
decades now, it hasn't happened yet. But when it does, he'll be
considered one of a few names responsible.

--Dave McElfresh

FRANCIS DUNNERY

Let's Go Do What Happens
Razor & Tie

EX-ROBERT PLANT, Yes and David Gilmour guitarist Francis Dunnery
continues his solo career remade as an introspective singer/songwriter.
On his latest release, Let's Go Do What Happens, Dunnery
mercifully eschews guitar-god wanking in favor of decidedly understated,
brief solos. Unfortunately, the album suffers from excess in every
other area. Although the packaging does a good job of hiding Dunnery's
past, the specter of prog-rock affectation looms throughout the
music. Dippy backing vocals, thunderous, overplayed drums and
pretentious, Pink Floyd-like spoken passages demonstrate that
you can take the dude out of the stadium, but you can't.... The
songs themselves are cluttered and awkward. With a voice at times
reminiscent of David Bowie and Peter Gabriel, Dunnery belts out
the lyrics as if each word imparts age-old wisdom. When he manages
to pull in the reigns, as in the acoustic "Home In My Heart,"
he sounds more on track: The song comes close to being the successful
vehicle of sound and intent that distinguishes the best singer/songwriters.
On the other hand, the album's closer, "Give Up Your Day
Job," mutes this optimism by being the most overblown number
presented. In a breathtaking waste of four minutes, all of Dunnery's
excesses get thrown into a cannon and shot at the listener. It's
an utter mess that makes you wish a sensible and steady hand had
been there to pull the plug.